Chapter XIII: The Daughter's Grief

THE acquaintance so earnestly desired by Cecilia Lawrence, between her brother and Emily, progressed but slowly. Notwithstanding that he prolonged his stay from one day to another, for reasons which seemed frivolous to every one but himself, yet with the exception of two occasions, he had never enjoyed free conversation with her. On both of these occasions he had accidentally met her walking alone.

The first time, she was walking quite through the village to a small cottage beyond, where a servant of Mrs. Duxbury lay ill, when she met him, and he instantly turned, went with her to the house, and only left her when they reached her own door. The second time, it was almost dark, and he was passing a large house, and heard Miss Washburn's voice at the door.

"Do let me speak to my brother," said a fresh, girlish voice. "He will be very happy to go home with you."

"No, indeed," answered Emily. "It is my own fault for staying so late, but I don't think I shall be afraid. I walk very fast, you know. Good-bye."

When she reached the gate, she was a little startled by seeing a tall form directly in her path.

"Good evening, Miss Washburn," he said. "I was passing and heard your remark. I don't think it wise for young ladies to be out alone at this hour." So saying, he took her hand, placed it on his arm, in the most matter of fact way, and went on at once with the conversation which they had commenced during their first walk.

Unconsciously to herself, the young teacher was led on to talk of her home, her parents, of Marion and Ruth. Of Josey and her wish that he should be a lawyer,—of herself and the desire she had felt from a child to travel in the old world. To hear the famous composers of her favorite music, and see with her own eyes the paintings of the old masters.

He listened as he would to a child, and said at last, "No doubt you will go some time."

"Oh, no!" she exclaimed, laughing. "That is my very airiest castle. I never expect to go, but I long for it all the same."

This was just as they parted, and he held her hand, while he said—

"I'm a good prophet, I think you will go."

Now he and his sister had left town, and to Cecilia's intense regret without any arrangement having been made for Emily to pass the winter in Washington, where, as the bride of her brother, she would have made such a pleasing sensation. She still believed this would have been accomplished, had it not been for a force behind the mysterious letters, which continued to arrive at regular intervals during his whole visit at Judge Wilson's, and which she was persuaded drew her brother's heart in an opposite direction.

So the last kisses had been interchanged, the last adieus uttered, with a promise on both sides of writing frequently.

The week following, the class in German had been called, and sat in the recitation room wondering at the very unusual want of punctuality in their teacher, when Mr. Duxbury opened the door.

"Young ladies," he said, gravely, "your recitation will be omitted to-day. You will be prepared with a double lesson to-morrow. You are dismissed."

The class broke up suddenly, and the girls surrounding Mr. Duxbury begged to be told what was the reason Miss Washburn did not come.

"Is she ill? Is any one dead? I hope she is not going to leave?"

"I think I may tell you that she has received sad intelligence from home. I'm sure you will all be very considerate of her feelings. Show your sympathy when you see her, without intruding on her sorrow. When she is able to speak of it, she will tell you herself."

Mr. Duxbury subscribed for several daily papers in which he was in the habit of advertising his school. On the morning of which we have spoken, Emily, having a few spare minutes before the school would be called to order, took up a late issue, and glanced down the columns. Suddenly her eyes became fixed on one short paragraph, her heart beats almost to suffocation as she sees her father's name in full, and oh, horror of horrors! in such a connection.

It was a paragraph similar to one which had so excited Marion's indignation, but in this instance, with the full name instead of the initials.

Mrs. Duxbury happening to pass through the hall at that moment, flew to the poor girl as she suddenly, and for almost the first time in her life, sank fainting to the floor. The newspaper was torn to pieces, and the contents scattered under the table.

Hastily summoning her husband, with the help of one of the servants, Emily was carried to her chamber, where she lay so long unconscious that the lady was leaving the room to call a physician, when the poor girl opened her eyes, and with a wild shriek, exclaimed,—

"It is false! It is cruelly false! Oh, it will kill me!"

Finding herself in her own room, and upon the bed, she sprang up, saying, "I ought to be packing my trunk. I must go home. I must start in the next train." Then a copious flood of tears came to her relief.

Dismissing every one from the chamber, Mrs. Duxbury drew the sobbing girl to a chair, and endeavored to draw from her the cause of her sudden grief.

"Oh, the paper, the cruel newspaper!" sobbed Emily. "Where is it? I tore it up. No one must see it. The story is false. My dear, good, honest father. Oh, how dreadful!"

"Shall I go and see whether the paper is destroyed or not?"

"Oh, if you would! But what shall I do? I can never be happy again. I ought to be at home to comfort my dear father. And mother, how she will mourn!"

Mrs. Duxbury left the room, wondering what had occurred, and soon returned with scraps of the newspaper, which she crushed together in her hand.

"Tell me all about it, my poor child," said the lady soothingly. "You know I love you dearly, and for your sake, all who belong to you."

"I can't! I can't! It's too dreadful! Oh, Mrs. Duxbury, if you knew my dear father, you'd be sure it isn't true! He would cut off his hands before he would take what was not his own."

"And is such an outrageous charge brought against him? No wonder you are angry. Tell me all about it, dear. Perhaps I can advise you what to do."

Then Emily, with a shudder, hid her burning blushes in her hands, and in an unsteady voice repeated the horrid words she had seen in the paper.

"Have your parents ever hinted at any trial through which they were passing?"

"Not a word," cried Emily, with sudden hope. "Is it possible there can be two treasurers by the name of Henry Washburn?"

"That is not very probable, but still I think you are laboring under a mistake. If it were true, your parents would never allow you to run the risk of reading it in a public journal."

"I thought they wrote in uncommonly good spirits," said Emily, wiping away her tears. "Mrs. Duxbury, did you ever have such a dreadful trial? I can't pray, or any thing. I can only feel how terrible such a charge must be to my dear, godly father. Don't you think I ought to go right home?"

"Certainly not, until you hear from your parents. If it will be any relief to you, Joseph shall go to the office when the morning mail comes in. That will give you letters, if there are any, five or six hours in advance of the usual time."

"Thank you. Oh, Mrs. Duxbury, I'm making you a great deal of trouble! My heart aches so, I can't bear to see any body but you, and my scholars will wonder where I am."

"Never mind the girls, dear. You must remember that your trouble is my trouble, and I shall try to help you all I can. You know, my poor child, where to go for abiding strength. I am going to leave you for a little while. When Joseph comes back, I will bring you a letter if I can."

Poor Emily When she was alone, she threw herself on her knees beside the bed, and though her sobs were too frequent for audible petitions, yet her whole heart went out to her sympathizing Saviour in a cry for help, and for submission to bear whatever trials might be sent upon her. Then she arose, and after bathing her swollen eyes, sat down to reflect on the past. The very vagueness of the rumor, made it far more distressing to her. Not for one instant did she give credit to the terrible accusation, but she longed to know whether it had come suddenly upon him. Who had dared point a finger at him? Were the score of years in which he had walked blameless in the sight of his brethren, of no account? What course would he pursue? Would her mother sink or rise in such an emergency? And then poor Marion and Ruth. Josey was too young to feel the affliction as the rest would. By the time Mrs. Duxbury returned, her brain reeled with overwhelming suggestions.

"Why, my child, how pale you are," said the kind lady coming in with a letter in her hand. "Here is something to cheer you, I hope and believe. I shall give you half an hour to read it. See what a thick one it is."

Probably in all her happy life, Emily had never read a letter of such absorbing interest as the ten closely written pages she held in her hand. Her mother began in her usual manner.

"Dear child," and then went on.

"An item relating to your father has found its way into the papers, and I sit down this evening to write you in advance of your weekly letter from home, lest you should happen to see it, and imagine the circumstance much worse than they are. If you could take a peep into the study at this moment, and see your father tied by twine strings to Josey, at the same time that he is endeavoring to find out a puzzle that the little rogue has brought home from school; and if you could hear your father's hearty laugh at Josey's exultant airs, as he says,—

"'You can't find it out, papa. Will you give it up? It's real easy when you know it,' then you would be sure that a good conscience can well afford to wait God's time to bring to light whatever is momentarily dark and obscure. Yet, Emily, we are in the midst of trial, and it is right you should know about it. The only mistake your father has made, of which I am aware, is, that for months this cloud has been hanging over him, and he has kept it from us, hoping to save us from anxiety."

Mrs. Washburn then proceeded to relate the circumstance in detail. In closing, she said,—

"I feel better, dear child, for having told you all this. I don't fear the result of the trial, but I do dread the trial itself. I am resolved to be present, and if Marion can control her indignation sufficiently to keep quiet, I shall let her accompany me. I wish exceedingly that we had a friend in whom we could confide, who would act as counsel for your father. He confesses that he knows nothing whatever of the steps he ought to take in preparation, or whether he ought to take any. But the Bishop has proved himself very friendly, and will probably do all that is needful.

"Widow Marsh died in triumph last Monday, with a prayer for your father still on her lips. We were both present. It was good to be there. Oh, my child, if we only live in the fear and love of God, it is easy, yes, blessed to die, and go to a world where all is love and joy and peace."

Emily still sat with the open sheets in her hand, when, after a low tap, Mrs. Duxbury reentered the chamber.

"I see," she said, with an affectionate kiss, "that your long letter has relieved you. You have lost the strained expression of pain."

"Mrs. Duxbury," cried Emily, impulsively, "I am going to prove to you how much I love you, and how grateful I am for your kindness, by reading you mother's letter. I suppose," she added, wiping her eyes, "that it will be made public, and I want you and Mr. Duxbury to know all about it."

"Thank you, Emily. I don't think you will regret your confidence."

The young girl began with the first sheet and read every word. When she came to the part where her mother said—

"Your father told the Bishop he wished to have a thorough investigation
of the whole affair,—"

with a burst of filial tears, Emily exclaimed—

"That doesn't look like a man who has defrauded the treasury."

Mrs. Duxbury sat very quiet during the reading, and when the letter was finished, she seemed to be lost in thought. At last she said,—

"I know something of these ecclesiastical counsels or meetings of reference, or whatever they are called. Tell me, Emily, am I right about your father? Is he a man who believes every one as good as himself?"

"Yes; he is wholly unsuspicious of evil."

"So I thought. Now to be examined by a company of gentlemen, even though each individual is a saint by himself, needs a man who unites the wisdom of the serpent with the harmlessness of the dove. I had a friend, my dear, a cousin, who was under trial once, and—" she shook her head in an expressive manner—"he was sacrificed,—yes, and when he was in his grave with a broken heart, the truth which would have vindicated him, all came out."

"Don't cry so, child. I tell you as a warning, your father isn't fit, by his own confession, to conduct his case, and he must have some legal friend to conduct it for him. Why don't you go to Judge Wilson and consult him? He's a good friend to you, and as true as steel."

"I will! I will! Oh, Mrs. Duxbury, I feel better already. Does it cost a great deal to employ a lawyer? You know I have more than a thousand dollars. How gladly I will use that."

"Money is no consideration in such a case, Emily. I've had experience, you know."

"I'm going to Judge Wilson's now. I'll tell him about that horrid piece in the paper, and then read him mother's letter."